“You must take it, sir,” said the other, “or you never leave the cavern which covers you,” and his eyes once more blazed as he uttered the words. “Gentlemen,” said Reiliy, “there appear to be fifteen or sixteen of you present: may I be permitted to ask why you suffer this unhappy man to be at large?” “Will you take the oath, sir?” persisted the insane bishop in a voice of thunder--“heretic and devil, will you take the oath?” “Unquestionably not. I will never take any oath that would imply want of honor in myself. Cease, then, to trouble me with it. I shall not take it.” This last reply affected the bishop's reason so deeply that he looked about him strangely, and exclaimed, “We are lost and betrayed. But here are angels--I see them, and will join in their blessed society,” and as he spoke, he rushed towards the stalactites in a manner somewhat wild and violent, so much so, indeed, that from an apprehension of his receiving injury in some of the dark interstices among them, they found it necessary, for his sake, to grapple with him for a few moments. But, alas! they had very little indeed to grapple with. The man was but a shadow, and they found him in their hands as feeble as a child. He made no resistance, but suffered himself to be managed precisely as they wished. Two of the persons present took charge of him, one sitting on each side of him. Reilly, who looked on with amazement, now strongly blended with pity--for the malady of the unhappy ecclesiastic could no longer be mistaken--Reilly, we say, was addressed by an intelligent-looking individual, with some portion of the clerical costume about him. “Alas! sir,” said he, “it was not too much learning, but too much persecution, that has made him mad. That and the ascetic habits of his life have clouded or destroyed a great intellect and a good heart. He has eaten only one sparing meal a day during the last month; and though severe and self-denying to himself, he was, until the last week or so, like a father, and an indulgent one, to us all.” At this moment the pale, mild-looking clergyman, to whom we have alluded, went over to where the bishop sat, and throwing himself upon his bosom, burst into tears. The sorrow indeed became infectious, and in a few minutes there were not many dry eyes around him. Father Maguire, who was ignorant of the progressive change that had taken place in him since his last visit to the cave, now wept like a child, and Reilly himself experienced something that amounted to remorse, when he reflected on the irreverent tone of voice in which he had replied to him.